Jackass Parables For Newer WLUers
Written June 25, 2005

Wilfrid Laurier University is a slippery place that won't let you leave.

I usually like to begin with a glaring hypocrisy. You see, I'm speaking as a recent graduate. I lived for years in the maelstrom of higher education in Waterloo, soaked in liquor and swimming through the flood of community involvement that makes this school so unique and entertaining, and now I'm leaving. Doneski. Gone. You should really know that University Is Not Very Hard©.

They gave me a piece of paper that says I'm fully qualified to be over-educated, cynical as hell and completely unprepared for the working world. Thank you, BA degree: you fucked with my head and gave me the boot and now I'm going to South Korea to teach English. Four years ago this would have freaked me out - dashing out into Real Life without a plan or mortgage or trust fund or pants or any of that - but now it seems like the finest logic in the world. Possibilities are boundless; life is golden. I'm excited.

Now I know what you're thinking: I happen to be psychic and magical, a major perk of a liberal arts education. “Who is this jackass,” you wonder, “And why is he wasting our time with parables of his jackassery?”

Listen. I was talking about the WLU magnet, way back before I went on my narcissistic tangent, and it's true: this school holds you to its succulent breast with angelic hands and tears your face to shreds with demon-claws at the same time. It doesn't want you to leave – you can't leave, it begs and cries and screams. And you can only see this from the pure banks on the far side of the river.

The demon is in the Bureaucracy, the Administration, as lame and clichéd as that sounds. Registering for requisite classes can be a nightmarish ordeal at times, and tumultuously shifting degree requirements often leave students out in the cold. Stay sharp if you don't want to be raped. No less than seven of my friends were informed, just one week before convocation, that they had failed to meet graduation requirements. Vanishing credit transfers from exchange programs, misinformed academic advice – the list is as diverse as it is ridiculous.

Learning of their predicament far too late to register for summer classes, the victimized now postpone their plans for the future and come sliding back to WLU for the much maligned victory lap in September. And, of course, the school rakes in more tuition money. Don't leave – you can never leave. Coffers swell on technicalities.

However, the angel rests in Laurier's tiny size. WLU High, as the jokes go. The gorgeous thing about a miniaturized education is the open-door opportunity to grow through relationships with your peers. Talk to the kids in your lectures: they won't disappear into the nebulous masses once the semester is over, as often happens at larger schools. You'll see a lot of each other, so get friendly.

Volunteer, or develop a rabid hatred for volunteering and start an Anti-Volunteer Drinking Club - it doesn't matter which. Meet your profs and chances are they'll remember you (wow, what a concept!). Troll Waterloo's bars for familiar faces. Pretty soon you start to develop a campus identity, a real sense that you belong. This is home and it feels good. Don't leave – you can never leave. The bond is strong. The pull is worthwhile.

So when I tell you that I finally managed to drag myself away from Laurier's shores, adultified and infinitely better than when I arrived (how's THAT for narcissism?), you'll know why the victory is bittersweet. This school is a little bit S&M, but I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

The best part of this column is the title, which I just came up with. I wish I had thought of it before the Frosh issue went to print... Oh well. Save yourselves, children!